This week I did something terrifying. Something that scared me
so much, that shocked me so much, that I have trouble confessing
it.
This week I did something terrifying. Something that scared me so much, that shocked me so much, that I have trouble confessing it.
I … I … I felt sorry for Martha Stewart.
Yes, it’s true. I felt a wisp of pity for the Diva of Domesticity. I watched her walk out of that courtroom, carrying a purse that cost more than a year’s worth of car payments and wearing a fur thing that looked like a rabid dog had her by the neck and I felt sorry for her.
And I don’t know why.
I mean, she’s MARTHA STEWART. And I’m not. I can’t even cook macaroni and cheese and this woman can whip up a 12-course meal for 20 using just the contents of her vegetable garden and her own free-range chickens.
I must be sick.
There’s no other explanation. I must have some horrible disease for which there is no cure – like mad cow or something. Because I’ve never, ever felt anything but scorn for Martha in the past.
And now I find myself thinking weird thoughts–like how will Martha fare in prison? If she looks washed out in the orange jumpsuit will they let her wear denim? Will the prison warden allow Martha to use a cloth napkin – or will she have to submit to the ultimate horror and use a paper one – or worse, no napkin at all?
What’s wrong with me? This is Martha Stewart I’m thinking about. I mean, for years Martha made me uncomfortable. We’re talking about a woman who made pumpkin pie from real pumpkins. Who does that? It’s just creepy – and downright un-American if you ask me.
Look, pumpkin pies should be made out of that canned stuff or bought at Marie Callendars. And pumpkins are for carving.
But Martha has to do everything bigger and better than everyone else and maybe that’s part of her downfall. A person like me, who can’t and won’t cook, admits her failures. A person like Martha who carves her own elaborate serpents using 20 pumpkins doesn’t admit to failure of any sort.
It’s just not an option. And that’s too bad. Because come June, Martha might be headed over to the big house. And I don’t mean Turkey Hill.
But I think I know why I feel that twinge of pity each time I see Martha’s face. Because the truth is that Martha allowed me to live a different life through her. Look, in my world – which is ruled by an eight-year old who insists “His Royal Highness” is a perfect nickname – I don’t have 12 course dinner parties. I don’t match wines to specific foods. I don’t even own a tablecloth.
But by watching Martha, I could have all that. I could live a little bit in her world of gorgeous gardens and perfectly folded sheets. And in my universe – where the dog and the kid trampled every flower ever planted and the sheets were more likely to be rolled up and stuffed into the linen closet – things were a little more genteel. Or at least I could fantasize that they were.
So I don’t know what I’ll do if Martha goes to the pokey. I certainly don’t want to live vicariously through her when she’s there. And I don’t think Martha wants to live in her world, either. In fact, right about now I think she’d feel more at home in mine – even if she had to eat takeout with paper napkins and call Junior “His Royal Highness.”
But I think she’d re-organize the linen closet. Or maybe she’d just refold the sheets.
